


Olympic Tryouts (part 12)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [12]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 12)

**Author's Note:**

> i’m back! and i survived both kickball tournaments with only terrible farmer tan lines to show for it.
> 
> a million thank you’s to everyone who likes/reblogs/asks me stuff about OT, y’all are shining stars and i would like to hug all of you tightly.

“Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Hmm?” Santana answers distractedly, her eyes closed as she continues to melt into the steaming water of the hot tub.

“I think it was a pretty straightforward question, San,” Brittany teases. Santana’s heart skips another beat with the shortening of her name, reveling in the easy and familiar way it tumbles from Brittany’s mouth like the most natural thing in the world.

“Chocolate. You?”

“Strawberry,” Brittany answers, smirking across the water as Santana opens her eyes to glance over.

“Cheater,” she berates playfully.

“Rules are for stiffs. Hermione and Ron or Hermione and Harry? Ooh! Or Hermione and Ginny?” Santana loves how Brittany’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning when she gets a great idea, beyond satisfied with her own cleverness.

“Are you kidding? Ginny was the biggest badass in the books, I gotta go with option C,” Santana laughs.

“Good answer. Ron was such a wet blanket most of the time, like sorry your brothers were all rock stars and you were lame but you were eventually one of the golden trio who saved the world and stuff, get over it!”

“Seriously.”

“How about a guilty pleasure?” Brittany asks, another wickedly mischievous look thrown in Santana’s direction while she swirls a finger across the surface of the water.

“Hmmm. Pretty Little Liars. Don’t ask,” Santana chuckles, shaking her head in embarrassment. “You? Wait, let me guess. Justin Bieber,” Santana teases, busting into an impromptu rendition of the chorus to “Baby,” and watching Brittany throw her head back in laughter.

“Maybe back in his younger years, but now he’s a scrawny entitled little prick. Imma go with Taylor Swift. Homegirl can write hella jamz,” her finger snapping for emphasis.

“Ewww, hella,” says Santana, scrunching up her nose in mock-disgust.

“What? You prefer ‘wicked awesome’? Sorry ‘bout it!”

“Stuff it, Pierce.”

“Hmmm,” Brittany hums, pulling the corner of her lip between her teeth and narrowing her eyes while she ponders her next question. “Would you rather lose your sight and never play hockey again or lose your hearing and never listen to music again?”

“Now that’s just mean,” Santana chides, splashing a wave of water in Brittany’s direction before turning her eyes back to the sunrise, pink bleeding into vibrant orange.

After a few moments of quiet deliberation in her own head, Santana answers. “I’d give up my hearing. I’ve loved music my whole life, but hockey _is_ my life, you know?” Santana turns back to a nodding Brittany, whose warm and affectionate smile splays across her features. “At least the music would live on in my own head, but I’d feel, I don’t know, empty I guess. If I couldn’t play anymore.” Santana feels Brittany’s toe bump softly into her ankle once, twice, three times before settling there for good as they blink at each other across the water.

“What do you miss most about home?” Santana asks, leaning her head sideways against the edge of the tub but turned in Brittany’s direction.

Brittany gets a faraway look on her face as she breaks eye contact and is silent for a few moments. The corner of her lip turns up into the ghost of a smile, but her eyes swirl with clouds. “My mom’s cooking,” she finally answers, just north of a whisper. Santana has to strain to hear her over the noise of the hot tub bubbling. “Especially her shepherd’s pie. Eating it was like this magic cure-all for whatever aches and pains I had, or if I was feeling sad.” The heaviness in Brittany’s tone pulls at something deep in Santana. “She was the best cook.”

“She sounds like an awesome woman, Britt. I’m so sorry you lost her,” Santana laments, her voice thick. She reaches through the water, feeling for Brittany’s hand and squeezes it. Brittany holds on and laces their fingers together, smiling fondly towards the skies.

“Me too,” she whispers, turning back to Santana. “But she’s still _here_.” She raises her free hand and presses it over her heart. “She’s _always here_.”

“And proud as hell of you,” Santana adds, nodding and squeezing their clasped hands again. They’re silent once more as the sun finally breaks over the mountains, bathing them in golden light.

Brittany breaks the silence first after a few long minutes. “My hands are super pruny now. What’d ya say we go rummage around the kitchen and see what we can make for hungover breakfast?”

“Sounds perfect,” Santana agrees. “I hope you brought towels…”

“Oops.” Brittany’s lips form a surprised “o” before she breaks into a grin, pulls herself quickly out of the water, shimmies like a wet dog and scampers into the house, a long trail of water following in her wake.

_____

Brittany reemerges from the house a few minutes later, towel cinched across her waist and holds another one open as Santana climbs out, wrapping it around her shoulders.

“How do you feel?” Brittany asks, her hands running up and down Santana’s arms to dry them. 

“Like I’m finally sobering up,” Santana laughs, shivering involuntarily before reaching down to pick up her clothes.

“Come on, Butthead, my tummy’s a rumblin’!” Brittany says, shutting off the hot tub jets and tugging on Santana’s towel to lead her back inside.

_____

They pull on sweats and tshirts from their respective bags enter the kitchen to find Quinn staring aimlessly at the closed refrigerator. 

“You okay, Fabray?” Santana asks, sidling up next to her. 

“Hey! That rhymes! You okay, Fabray??” Brittany parrots, popping up on her other side.

Quinn is not amused and looks rather like she got hit by a train, her eye makeup smudged into dark racoon-like circles, hair sticking up every which way and her mouth hanging half-open. “Water,” she rasps, eliciting a chuckle from Santana who takes the cup from her hand and fills it from the Brita already out on the counter.

“That good, huh?” Santana asks, handing over the water. Quinn’s eyes flit to her dangerously before snatching the cup and chugging its contents.

“I feel like death spread on toast,” Quinn deadpans, stalking slowly to the closest chair and falling into it in a heap. Santana strategically places the nearly empty bottle of tequila right on the table in front of her

“Hair of the dog?” she suggests, half-joking. At the sight and smell of the liquor, Quinn greens visibly, lunges out for the trash can and barfs right into it.

“Gross,” Brittany mumbles.

“Shut it, Pierce,” Quinn groans, coughing roughly and lifting her head from the garbage to rest forehead first on the kitchen table. “Why are you two so chipper?” she croaks, eyeing Brittany and Santana skeptically. “And what time did we even go to bed last night? Did I sing *NSYNC or was that a dream? Last thing I remember is flip cup… Ughhhh.”

“I guess some can just hold their liquor better than others,” Santana teases, poking Quinn in the ribs before replacing the trash bag with a fresh one and hauling the rest of the garbage out to the garage.

“Fuck off,” she hears Quinn yell.

_____

When she returns, Brittany is whistling and shaking her butt in front of the stove top, swirling a spatula through a large frying pan and scrambling up eggs.

“Slice those avocados, would ya? Wez be makin’ breakfast tacos!” she caws, nodding over her shoulder at the bag chock full of avocado on the kitchen island and turning back to the eggs.

“Brilliant,” Santana mumbles, shaking her head and trying to hide her grin at how Brittany may be the most perfect human she’s ever met as she expertly flicks a second frying pan, a browned tortilla flipping into the air and back down onto its other side.

_____

One by one their teammates emerge from the depths of the house at the smell of breakfast. There’s tons of water passed around, along with the full bottle of Advil because no one seems to be feeling their best, but all the eggs are gone in record time.

As usual Rachel will not shut her trap about the events of last night, which results in her getting a spoon full of eggs catapulted in her direction from Santana.

They spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess they made of the house, ensuring every chair and throw pillow is back in it’s rightful place before piling in the cars and making their way back to the dorms.

Santana keeps catching Brittany’s eye through the rear view mirror as she drives them back through town, her palms sweaty on the steering wheel the whole ride home.


End file.
